Patroklos and Briseis
by DownWithBananafish
Summary: Lovestory, sort of. Patroclus&Briseis. Drabble.


She has taken to watching him as he works, his gentle hands moving over somebody's tattered flesh, mouth moving almost silently, whispering comfort, distracting from the pain: _you'll be alright. You're alive. You were a hero today. You did well. Just think: you can go home the minute the war's over. You're alright. You're alive. Just hold on until they let you out of this mess. Hold on, come on, stay alive. . . I know it hurts, I know, I know, I know. Shh. Calm down. You're alive. Shh._

She sees his face when the man goes limp in his arms. He turns away, and she wonders if this is why he never speaks to her: he's wasted all his words on the dead.

After a while she begins to spend time with him in Achilleus' tent. They talk; neither are particularly good conversationalists, but they manage—starting off small, with idle chatter and gossip of their superiors, then larger, each of them sharing tiny pieces of their past a little at a time.

He tells her about the dice, about the argument, about the things the boy had said to him that made his blood run cold, and the awful roaring in his ears when he gets angry and the way you feel that there is nothing else to do but run, because he says, he knows he is a coward and he hates it, he hates it more than he hates Agamamemnon and the rest of those bastards out there playing Achilleus like a puppet on a string and the way he feels when Achilleus comes back with somebody else's blood smeared on his clothes like the blackberry juice that dribbled down their chins in Phthia. He tells her about how it sounded when the boy's skull smashed against the rock, and she doesn't wince when he describes it but merely listens, and he realizes he hasn't spoken like this since he was a child. He knows he should ask her about her life, her memories, her dreams and fears and loves but he can't seem to stop talking, and he thinks perhaps he's as arrogant as Achilleus, this selfish, this insensitive, but then he doesn't care anymore because Briseis is leaving and heaven knows what Agamamemnon will do to her, and he can't look at Achilleus anymore without seeing the widows of the innocent men he's killed but he'll die anyway and it's awful, he says, because he knew he'd lose his friend but he though it would just be to Hades, not some greedy, corrupt warlord. He talks about his exile, the pain and the shame of it, and meeting Achilleus, and how it felt like the world was finally putting itself back together, piece by piece, and how later it was nice to be protected by somebody, because he knew from experience he couldn't do it himself.

She listens and nods and grimaces in the right places and then she tells him about other things, things that make him wish he didn't pity himself so much because really, she's had it much worse. She tells him about her husband who never cared for her much but he was somebody who made her feel less alone, and about Achilleus killing him without so much as a second glance. The same day, she says, he killed her brothers and her father, and she knows she can never fogive him for that, no matter who he is, because now there is nobody, and she's seen the look in the Greek's eyes when he grips his spear and plunges, and now, well, it seems as though the war will never end.

Once Achilleus comes to them—to see his friend or his slave, neither can tell. He stands in the doorway of the tent for a moment, watching Patroklos dig a spearhead out of a young soldier's thigh as Briseis looks on, wordlessly passing him salve when he needs it. It's not until after the youth is cared for that Patroklos finally looks up, and smiles brightly when he sees the figure before him.

"I'll be a while. Lots of injuries." Pause. "Good day?"

"Fine. I need the girl."

Briseis' head snaps up. Her eyes meet Patroklos', and she's shocked to see that the fear in his eyes almost matches her own.

"Achilleus. . ."

"There was nothing I could do!" The words rip from his mouth like screams of the guilty, and his face is not angry, as she sould have supposed, but panicked. Pleading, almost. "They dishonored me, Patroklos! He dishonored me, and all those damned Achaians did was stand there and watch! They don't respect me, and they never have! I'm just another valuable asset to them, aren't I, just a tool to win the war, they don't care about me, they just want _Troy_—and _Helen_—"

Patroklos stands, grabs his shoulder. His face is drawn. "Agamemnon dishonored you."

"Yes."

"And he wants Briseis."

"Yes."

"And you're going to let him have her?"

"I have no choice!"

"You can admit he was right and you were wrong." Briseis has forgotten, up until this point, how much she admires this gangly young companion of Achilleus whom the rest of the Greeks have forgotten. She sees his silence—not unlike her own—that has kept him alive all these years, the strong silence, the powerful silence, the silence of one who has no power, no respect, but heroic all the same. She sees the way he reasons with his master, the way he maneuvers everything so as not to injure the hero's pride. He is a prisoner like herself. She thinks he understands things few people do, and at this moment, with him looking fiercely into Achilleus' eyes, pointing out the obvious, trying to save her, she sees his death as well. There is no way somebody as beautiful as this can live forever.

Achilleus' jaw is working furiously. "I can't," he says.

"You can. You can do anything."

"You're flattering me."

"We all are."

"He's wrong."

"I know he is, and everybody else knows he is. Your reputation will be fine. Briseis doesn't have to pay for his arrogance—or yours."

Silence. All three of them can hear the crash of water on the rocks (godborn Achilleus' mother, where is she now?) the shuffling of Agamamemnon's feet (or somebody's, surely, somebody big and heavy and hungry) and the cries of dead men on the battlefield (although it's too far away, perhaps they're imagining things). _What has he done?_

"It's not your place to tell me what to do, son of Menoitios," says the warrior. His words pierce into me, harsh and angry and cold as a knife. "I'll be outside with the men. When you come out, have her with you. You will not humiliate me."

Patroklos' voice is barely a whisper. "Yes, Achilleus."


End file.
